


steadfast care

by peakgay



Series: talents [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: First Time, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:38:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5406788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peakgay/pseuds/peakgay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sleep, if you can. The bed is yours, if you’ll have it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	steadfast care

**Author's Note:**

> this is, essentially, a prequel to [just being here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5019598) though the timeline is foggy.
> 
> other mentions: laurens/hamilton, lafayette/hamilton
> 
> why does this exist? because i visited mount vernon and got deep into the sin. look it's fine. it's late and i'm tired and it's #finals

Mount Vernon is more tremendous than Hamilton had expected. The mansion itself is one thing - broad and expansive, three floors with red shutters on the windows and a ventilation system installed at the top - but the surrounding area makes even Hamilton feel serene and at peace. He takes the steps along the pathway slowly, pausing to glance into the vegetable garden on his right side. He leaves his horse at a fencepost with a supply of water and grain before he steps to the front door, only slightly hesitant.

Hamilton gives a steady knock and brushes his hands across his pant legs, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he waits. A moment later, Martha Washington arrives at the door, and she smiles at Hamilton and gestures for him to come inside.

“Good afternoon, Lady Washington,” Hamilton says, taking her hand and just barely brushing his lips against her knuckles. She smiles and ushers him into the dining room.

“George should be back shortly. He’s working in the stables but he’ll be happy you arrived safely. Sit, please.” The table is small and bare and Hamilton pulls out a chair, sitting and resting his hands in his lap. A moment later, Mrs. Washington comes back with a plate with a large piece of what looks like fruit pie. Hamilton’s stomach gurgles and he swallows before smiling.

“Thank you,” he says as Mrs. Washington puts the plate and a fork in front of him. He realizes, suddenly, how small she is. She doesn’t maintain the same thinness that many of the girls Hamilton flirts with do - and she isn’t anywhere near as young, either. She has laugh-lines and dimples and dark, spiraling curls to her hair, but she keeps it tucked into a bun - it suits her strict but kind manners.

Hamilton understands what draws the General to her, and clears his throat before he looks back down at his plate again.

“Would you like some tea, Mr. Hamilton?” She still hovers near the doorway with that gentle smile of hers, and Hamilton just shakes his head and offers her another ‘thank you’ in between bites.

Hamilton’s body tenses, almost without thought, when he hears the door open again and the footsteps that follow. He steadies himself, not turning as Washington ducks his head into the kitchen and greets his wife standing in the doorway.

“Hamilton,” he says. “Good to see you found your way safely.”

Hamilton nods. “And Mrs. Washington has been very accommodating,” he says, dragging his eyes to Martha. “I’ve been quite grateful.”

Washington looks at him for a moment, almost completely still where he stands, before nodding. “Yes, well, I’m glad you’re here. I’d like it if - Martha, let’s make some tea and have Hamilton settle into the room next door?” He looks from his wife to Hamilton, and Hamilton pauses before he stands. “That’s where Martha generally entertains her friends after dinner. We’ll retire there beforehand. I’d just like to take a moment.”

“Yes, sir,” Hamilton nods.

“I’ll be right in.”

Hamilton frowns but doesn’t argue, taking his leave and slipping past the Washingtons to direct himself to the room on the other side of the hall. The table in the other room has cards on the end and he picks up the deck, delicately thumbing through it as he sits again and glances at the walls. There are a few portraits - art that Hamilton has never seen before, and didn’t know was Washington’s style - and the small fireplace crackles comfortably.

Washington returns with tea and sets a cup in front of Hamilton, smiling warmly.

“Sir,” Hamilton says, picking up the cup and sipping. “Thank you for the invitation.” It seems the only appropriate start to the conversation, and Washington chuckles. 

“You must be tired from the ride from New York,” Washington says. His voice is soft, and Hamilton takes a breath, staring at the steam coming from his tea. “I appreciate your willingness to visit.”

Hamilton shakes his head sharply. “It’s nothing, sir.” His mouth is dry. He sips again, then sets down the teacup.

“Martha named a cat after you.”

“Did she, sir?”

Washington nods, slowly. “There’s a feral tomcat that likes to prowl around the house. We’ve already found two litters of kittens nearby. One in the barn with the horses. They do well in killing the rats.”

“Ah,” Hamilton says. “What inspired the...name?”

“She’s heard about your flirtations with women.”

“I see.” Hamilton examines the pattern on the teacup. Delicate flowers, like ones he’d seen walking up past the garden. He crosses one leg over the other knee, knocking the table and disturbing the pot in the center. It gives a short rattle and Hamilton glances up to gauge Washington’s reaction.

He says nothing, sitting quietly.

“Did you...inform her?” Hamilton says. He’s curious about the name. He wonders if they call the cat ‘Alexander’ or ‘Hamilton.’ Both seem preposterous names for a cat.

“I may have been the one to mention your interests. Women are a good distraction in the midst of war.” Washington seems casual, unbothered by Hamilton’s growing anxiety. “I don’t hold it against you, that you might look for something to occupy your spare time.”

“Sir,” Hamilton says, his throat drying up again. He picks up his tea and takes an almost delicate sip. 

“Though I must chide you for when you forget your responsibilities. Don’t think the word doesn’t get back to me.”

Hamilton feels his face growing steadily warmer, and nods. The General seems smaller, less intimidating in his own home, in civilian clothes, and yet - Hamilton can’t get the anxieties to stop fluttering around in his stomach. He examines the teapot now, its pattern almost an exact replica of the cups. Pale pinks and pastel blues over an off-white background.

“Sir,” he says again. “Are you suggesting I find a wife?”

Washington laughs - a warm, full sound, and it echoes in the room. “You’re still young, Alexander.” Hamilton shudders, blames it on a draft. “Perhaps it isn’t time for such a commitment. But marriage - it is a blessed thing, when you find the right woman.”

Hamilton hums, keeping his eyes fixed on his tea. “Lady Washington is that woman then?”

“She is the understanding sort.”

“The understanding sort,” Hamilton repeats. He glances up at Washington then. “She understands how you entertain guests, sir?”

Hamilton’s stomach immediately sinks and his face flushes in the sudden silence of the room, but he’s interrupted from the sense of shame when Washington stands. “Let me show you where you’ll be staying,” he says. “You look exhausted.”

Hamilton blinks and stands as well, setting down his unfinished tea and fidgeting. “It’s...early, sir. I was certainly hoping to...spend more time…” He trails off, focusing on Washington who shakes his head and steps out of the door. Hamilton follows, this time without hesitation, and Washington leads the way to a long narrow staircase towards the front of the house, secluded and cut off. Washington has to duck under the overhang as to not hit his head, and it almost grazes the top of Hamilton’s hair as well.

“Please,” Washington says, “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Sir…” He pauses, glances into the bedroom as Washington pushes the door open. The area is large, the bed at least six feet long and wide - he notes the vanity towards the back, and another large dresser against the wall, made of mahogany. “This is a beautiful space,” Hamilton says, then glances back at Washington, who smiles patiently at him.

“Hamilton,” he says, and there’s a low thrum in his voice that reminds Alexander of the war, and of warm breath against his shoulder, of bodies moving in careful sync in the dead of night. He suppresses a shiver. “Rest here. I have more guests attending the house for supper tonight, and I’m sure you’re uninterested in social interaction over food and tea.”

Hamilton knows better than to argue, and he tries to ignore his cock hardening in his breeches.

“Sleep, if you can. The bed is yours, if you’ll have it.”

Hamilton swallows and nods. He’s sure Washington is going to turn and leave him alone with no further instruction but then Washington says, “Ah,” and smiles again.

“When you have a moment, remove your breeches and waistcoat. I’ll have a maid come and wash them for you, and offer you a warm bath.”

“Sir, that’s not - that’s not necessary, please don’t waste your resources…”

Washington’s expression is stern enough to quiet Hamilton, who nods again and says instead, “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Washington’s voice is kind. “Rest up, if you can.”

Hamilton stands near the bed and only lets out a breath when Washington closes the door and he hears the footsteps creaking down the stairs. Hamilton stands still for a moment, then turns to survey the bedroom. It’s only midafternoon, but the light doesn’t seep through the window from this angle, and the room is getting dark.

He looks back at the bed again and then thinks about what Washington said. His hands twitch at his sides and he breathes in deeply before he starts undoing the buttons of his shirt, gently tugging it down his shoulders and dropping it to the floor. He strips off the rest of his clothing slowly, each movement deliberate as the chill in the air again reminds Hamilton where he is. He shudders as he removes his breeches and steps back from the pile of clothes and looks across the room again.

Hamilton is grazing his fingers along the dresser when there’s a light knock at the door. He immediately stiffens and jumps, feeling his face flush as a woman’s soft voice says, “Are you decent, sir?”

“O-one moment,” he calls, voice cracking as he pulls back the blankets on the bed and crawls under the layers. 

The door cracks open and he says, “Come in,” in a shaking voice.

He doesn’t recognize the woman, but she sends him a brief glance and a smile. “Your clothes, sir?” she says, and Hamilton juts his chin towards the space on the floor. “Ah, perfect. And the General is having me bring you some water to bathe…”

Hamilton just swallows and nods. “Thank you,” he says, once the tightness in his throat subsides as the woman folds his dirty clothes. “You…”

She hums and shakes her head. “There’s nothing you need to tell me, sir,” she says. “No excuses you need to make.”

Hamilton nods again, taking a deep breath. “I’ll take care of the clothes and bring in the water in a moment, alright?” She looks at him, and Hamilton hesitates, staring and blinking before the woman raises an eyebrow and he nods. He understands. He accepts what she’s doing, and he isn’t going to ask any questions.

He waits, running his thumb along the blanket, curling his toes against the mattress and wishing he could relax and sleep like Washington had asked. Instead, he gives the woman a brief smile when she brings a tub of still-steaming water into the bedroom and leaves it in the center of the room.

Hamilton waits until he doesn’t hear any creaking on the stairs to get out from under the blankets and get into the bathtub. He sits in the water, only listening for a few minutes, perfectly still. The voices downstairs are indistinguishable - he can recognize Washington greeting guests, and then the voices of several women, perhaps, but beyond that he can’t observe anything specifically. Their words, discussions and attitudes escape him, and Hamilton slips back into focus on his surroundings. He takes the washcloth on the edge of the tub and bar of soap the woman had left and he spends a few minutes bathing properly. He decides not to wash his hair, afraid it might not dry before Washington returns.

He sits in the water until it becomes lukewarm and steps out, wrapping himself in a blanket and shivering before he returns to lying down in the bed. He dozes eventually, curled up there, and when he opens his eyes again the room is dark and the chatter downstairs has died down.

Hamilton rolls onto his side and stares at the decorations on Washington’s wall for a few minutes until there’s another gentle knock at the door. He twitches, rolls over again, wrapping the blanket around his entire frame.

“Alexander?”

“Yes,” he says, and his voice is oddly hoarse. He clears his throat as he sits up, trying not to worry about the way his hair might be tangled and that he probably looks half asleep and dreary.

Washington opens the door slowly and Hamilton squints against the brightness of the lamp, shifting towards the head of the bed and pulling another blanket over his bare legs. His cock twitches against his thigh and Hamilton sighs under his breath, embarrassed by the ease of his bodily reactions.

He still isn’t sure why he’s _here_ but he voices no complaints.

“Sir,” he says. “How is…” He trails off as Washington steps towards the bed, and lights a candle with the lamp on the table besides the bed. Hamilton licks his lips and waits in silence as Washington crosses the rest of the room, lighting several other candles before he blows the lamp out and sets it down on his desk.

“Everything is well,” Washington says, turning so his back is facing Hamilton.

He’s beginning to undress, Hamilton notices, a shiver threatening to dissolve his senses right there.

The General is slow, each button removed deliberately, each movement perhaps made to be watched - not that Hamilton would make such a bold suggestions out loud to Washington. He waits, gently biting the inside of his cheek, breath baited and caught towards the back of his throat.

“Sir,” he says again. “Might I ask…” Again, the words are lost as Washington turns his head over his shoulder to look at Hamilton. The General smiles, and his eyebrows in all their thick, distinctive nature, rise slightly on his forehead. Hamilton senses the challenge - under any other circumstances, he’d not hesitate to take it. But he’s naked and chilled and lying in Washington’s bed and questions seem silly in the moment.

Washington leaves a white cotton undershirt on, but he’s otherwise as naked as Hamilton, and Hamilton swallows hard to regain his composure as Washington joins him in the bed.

When Washington finally touches him - a flick of his fingers against Hamilton’s jaw, brushing his loose hair behind his throat - Hamilton flinches and shudders.

“Alexander?” Washington says, warm concern thrumming in his voice.

Hamilton hums. “Sir,” he says.

Washington pushes back the blankets, moves closer to Hamilton, and their bodies knock together. It’s almost awkward at first - one of Washington’s knees grazes Hamilton’s thigh and then there’s a pause as Washington adjusts and hooks his leg around Hamilton, who rolls a little further onto his side.

But it’s Washington’s cock against his hip, hard and hot, that makes Hamilton’s breath catch and a small whine pass through him.

Washington rocks his hips, his cock rubbing against Hamilton’s skin. Hamilton scrambles and eventually rests a hand on Washington’s shoulder, gripping just enough to keep himself from collapsing without clinging or pressing his short nails into Washington’s shirt and skin.

“Have you written a word today, Alexander?”

He loves when Washington calls him that.

He manages to shake his head.

“Speak,” Washington says. He gently maneuvers Hamilton so that his back is once again pressed into the bed itself, and Hamilton lets out a low sigh.

“No, sir,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut as Washington presses warm kisses along his neck. “Not a word.” It does feel strange, now that he considers it. Most days he has time to sit at a desk, or grab a quill and a piece of parchment and write some sort of idea or argument or letters. He had received a letter from Laurens a couple of days ago - and he hasn’t written a reply.

“You deserve to relax, Alex,” Washington says. “Breathe.”

It sounds more like a command than a suggestion, and Hamilton follows orders as expected. He feels Washington smiling against his skin.

“Good,” Washington says. Hamilton sighs. The room is already infinitely warmer - though Hamilton also suspects that is likely the proximity of their bodies - and to his surprise, Washington runs his fingers through Hamilton’s hair and comments. “You’ve done well to keep my bed so comfortable.”

Hamilton twists slightly, his cock throbbing where it’s pressed between their stomachs. Washington sits up slightly, straddling Hamilton without pressing his full weight down on his hips, and Hamilton frowns at Washington’s smirk.

“Sir,” he says, almost a whisper. He doesn’t want to sound nervous, but Washington just presses his thumb along Hamilton’s jaw and then his cheekbones, seeming to only examine him with his gaze.

Hamilton turns his face, unable to keep contact with Washington, and Washington laughs softly.

“Alexander,” he says. 

Hamilton closes his eyes. After a moment of composure, he looks back at Washington - who, much to Hamilton’s surprise, is running his hands across Hamilton’s bare chest. He leans down and kisses the expanse of Hamilton’s skin; runs his tongue over the area under Hamilton’s heart where his ribs press against skin. Hamilton shivers and drops his head back against the pillow with a low, hungry sigh. Washington smiles, kisses the dip of Hamilton’s hip, and his mouth trails lower to Hamilton’s cock.

Hamilton curses under his breath as Washington licks the length of Hamilton’s cock and then presses his lips to the tip in what could be a soft and chaste kiss anywhere else. 

“Are you with me?” Washington says, still mouthing Hamilton’s cock. 

“Yes,” he says. “Sir, I…”

“Speak up, Alexander.” Washington swallows him down and Hamilton moans, the sound breaking the barriers he had put up for himself and quietness in Washington’s home - he immediately bites down hard on his bottom lip, tries to swallow the sounds threatening to escape his throat, but Washington has hollowed his cheeks and his mouth is _hot_ And Hamilton bucks his hips, sliding down further.

The demand was for him to speak up - Hamilton gathers himself, trying to focus on anything but the tongue circling the tip of his cock, and says, “Your excellency - I - what do you want of me, tonight?” The words shudder with Hamilton’s twitching body, and he clenches his fists into the sheets beneath them and sighs as Washington slides off of his cock.

Then Washington sits up and kisses him - kisses him warm, open-mouthed, kind of slow. Hamilton lets himself moan this time, knowing it’ll be muffled by Washington’s mouth. It’s a safe bet, and by the time Washington leans back to look at him, Hamilton is ready to breathe again.

“Even naked and desperate underneath me, you can’t shed titles,” Washington murmurs.

Hamilton stammers something nonsensical, flushing again with the realization.

“I’m not complaining,” Washington says, laughing and kissing Hamilton again. “I know what I want.”

Hamilton licks his lips. 

“No, no,” Washington says, peering at him in the candlelight. “Not your mouth.”

Hamilton frowns. “Then...I…”

Washington shifts and Hamilton gasps as one of his calloused fingers circles Hamilton’s opening between his legs. Almost without a formed thought, Hamilton pushes his legs further apart, as if adjusting for something he now considers inevitable.

Mouths, yes. He’s shared mouths with fellow soldiers before. Washington, of course, had used his mouth when the stress became unbearable, and Hamilton offered it gladly for a moment of silence. Lafayette and Laurens had been reciprocative when Hamilton had offered them the service as well in times of dire stress (there was one night when Lafayette had been sitting alone in his cot in tears, anguished over the complexity of his affection for Washington - a father to Lafayette in many rights - and the loss of his own father. Perhaps it had been inappropriate, Hamilton muses now, to kneel in front of his friend and offer the only comfort he knew how, but it had worked, and the distraction had made them both closer, and Hamilton appreciated the look of hunger Lafayette sent his way in distracted moments at dinner or marching to battle). 

He had been on the receiving end of such a service as well - Laurens complained Hamilton kept his hands too busy with quills and parchments and would force Hamilton to shift his attention to Laurens’ hair. Hamilton remembered the soft curls in his tired fingers, and Laurens seemed appreciative when Hamilton would pull his hair or push his mouth further down.

Now, there seemed to be a slight disconnect - though Hamilton wasn’t surprised. He had considered the possibility. It was more reminiscent of a woman, in Hamilton’s understanding, though women were easier to slide into and provided their own wetness when their interest was piqued. 

“Is that acceptable?”

Washington’s voice knocks Hamilton out of his thoughts and he swallows, glancing at Washington. “Yes,” he says, fears quelling at the softness in Washington’s normally hard expressions.

He trusts the General.

“I trust you,” he says. “Sir.”

“Good,” Washington says. “Now...I told you before, that Mrs. Washington understands.”

Hamilton squirms. “That’s what you said,” he mutters, and then Washington has rolled away from him and Hamilton sucks in a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s suddenly terribly cold, and he presses his knees together and tries to ignore the desperate clawing in his stomach.

The moment alone is shortlived, as Washington returns and spreads his fingers over Hamilton’s thigh, ushering his legs apart and then murmuring, “Roll over.”

Hamilton blinks a few times and says, “Sir?”

Washington presses a kiss to Hamilton’s knee. It’s dark, and though the candles are still burning throughout the room, most of Washington’s figure is distorted. Hamilton lies very still for a moment, and Washington doesn’t coax or follow up to chide him - he waits.

Nodding - to himself more than anything - Hamilton turns over, exposing his back. His shoulders and the small of his back are still damp, and as adjusts and wraps his arms around a pillow to rest his chin, the coolness of the air in the room and of the bed underneath him only causing him slight discomfort.

Hamilton puts his tongue between his teeth as Washington’s hands graze down his back, resting on his hips before nudging apart his thighs. Hamilton shifts to accommodate Washington, his face getting warm by now, pressed against the pillow. 

“Does she _know_ , sir?” The words come out in one short, breathless sentence, a churning thought in his head that Hamilton finally lets go of, and the following resounding laugh, though low and quiet, gives Hamilton a sense of both discomfort and relief.

“We have an understanding, like I said,” Washington says. He’s pressing kisses down Hamilton’s back now, and Hamilton can feel the heat of his open-mouth - unfamiliar against these patches of skin. Washington’s words aren’t an answer, but Hamilton think he shouldn’t ask again. “She recognizes our experiences are more complicated than anyone else would give us credit for.”

Hamilton’s breath hitches again - it’s Washington’s hands pushing him apart now, and he tries not to gasp and moan but the sounds come out anyway. It’s an almost incalculable moment, Hamilton groaning at the sudden heat of Washington’s tongue against him.

It isn’t one swipe, either - the sensation continues, the warmth and wetness of Washington’s mouth renewed again and again at his entrance. Hamilton clings to the sheets, his palm and forehead sweaty by now. He bites into the pillowcase, pressing his entire face into the fabric to try to quiet his moans. He’d never thought about this particular technique - never even considered a tongue that far between his legs; but now it’s Washington’s tongue, relentless and gently probing him open, and Washington’s breath is warm too against his back and his ass and Hamilton whimpers.

“Shh, shh,” Washington murmurs, and Hamilton grinds his hips down against the bed as Washington draws a finger inside. The sensation encourages extra sparks, and there’s a slide to Washington’s finger that makes Hamilton suspicious of his lubricant, but he doesn’t have the patience or the energy to ask as he buries his face into the pillow to silence his moaning.

Hamilton’s heart is pounding, and though Washington’s slick fingers are slow, they’re incessant and he’s building a rhythm. Each thrust makes Hamilton give a short jerk of his hips and a gasp into the pillow, and he isn’t sure how, exactly, but his cock is throbbing harder than before, the tip wet and almost sore where it’s trapped between his stomach and the bed. He wants to come - almost desperately - but he needs to be touched.

“Alexander,” Washington says, and the room suddenly falls deathly silent as Washington slides his fingers out of Hamilton. “I want...If you’ll let me have you.”

“ _Please_ ,” Hamilton grits out. Washington pushes him over this time, gently, leveraging Alexander by his hips and again spreading his legs. Washington reaches behind Hamilton and takes on of the pillows, which he then rests under Hamilton’s lower half after lifting Hamilton’s hips.

Then Washington is hovering over him, and he says, “Relax,” and Hamilton starts to take deep, even breaths, until Washington finally kisses the corner of his mouth.

Washington’s cock is slick - again, whatever lubricant Washington has applied makes the movement easier - and Hamilton groans as Washington pushes the head of his cock inside of him. He focuses on relaxing again, keeping his legs apart as Washington leans over him, resting his arms on either side of Hamilton’s. They’re both quiet as Washington sinks in, and it’s less painful than Hamilton had expected. Instead, the feeling is just a stretch - unfamiliar, but not unwarranted.

“Alexander,” Washington says, and now his voice seems almost hoarse, cracking. “I’ve…” He pauses, and Hamilton sigh as Washington gives the first real thrust of his hips, now completely inside of him. “I’ve thought of this.”

“I haven’t,” Hamilton admits. “I never…” He swallows, tightness in his throat, and Washington starts to rock his hips, dragging out only slightly before he thrusts back in, jolting Hamilton back against the pillow. “I never thought it would…”

“It’s alright,” Washington says. He presses his mouth to Hamilton’s forehead. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Hamilton whines, but nods as well, and he eventually loses track of the moments - their bodies are synced again, and Washington shifts to grip one of Hamilton’s thighs and angle himself so each of his thrusts elicit a sharp gasp from Hamilton. 

When Washington curls his fingers around Hamilton’s cock and starts to give him fast, in-time strokes, Hamilton feels his eyes roll back into his head as he tenses and, with one final moan, comes apart into Washington’s fist. 

Other orgasms haven’t been like this - that’s Hamilton’s first cohesive thought as he moans towards the ceiling, scraping his fingers across Washington’s shoulders (at some point he took off the undershirt, though Hamilton can no longer remember a moment when it was on) and clenching around Washington’s cock. Washington’s pace becomes more rigorous as Hamilton spills onto his stomach and into Washington’s palm, and it only spurs on the intensity of the aftershocks, Hamilton gasping for breath as Washington fucks hard into him. 

After a minute of Washington’s rougher thrusts, he stops, groans into Hamilton’s shoulder, and pulses inside of him. Hamilton sighs as Washington rests and then, seconds later, slides out and rolls over to Hamilton’s side, collapsing on the bed.

“I…” Hamilton starts to say, but Washington presses a finger against his lips and hushes him. He relaxes instead against the bed, closing his eyes as his body twitches in the aftermath.

“Thank you,” Washington says into the silence. “For...accepting my invitation and so graciously visiting my home and…” He pauses. “For keeping my bed warm.”

Hamilton smiles. “Is that what you ask of me?” he murmurs. “I’m not certain I can always make the trip to Mount Vernon, but…”

Washington chuckles. “No, I would only ask that you perhaps...I know you can busy yourself with words some days, but on nights when you’re tired, and I may be absent until late, I would be happy to arrive and have you waiting for me.”

“Is that safe, sir?” Hamilton says, glancing over at Washington.

“Mm, it’s of little concern.” Washington looks at him, and there’s a fondness there - something soft, undescribable - that makes Hamilton want to do exactly what Washington asks.

“Sir,” he says, unable to find another word to fit the moment. “I would be happy to stay and wait for you.” He means it. If those moments end with Washington on top of him, touching him like this - Hamilton would do anything for that.

Hamilton thinks about what Washington said about his wife earlier as they both doze, Hamilton fitting himself into the crook of Washington’s arm.

Should he - could he? - find himself a wife? A woman to keep heads from turning. He was young still, and yes, so was the war perhaps - but maybe Washington was right to chide Alexander for his flirtations. He knew why he did it, but no one else could see that.

Distractions from war were one thing.

He would ask Washington again, for clarification. Whether his wife _knew_ the true extent of things. Whether that was...difficult for her.

A wife might deter Washington’s advances. Or Lafayette’s, or Laurens’. It wasn’t something Alexander exactly craved, but as he strokes his fingers along Washington’s neck, memorized the contours of his face, he wanted nothing more than just this.

It couldn’t be forever, but as Alexander rests his head in the crook of Washington’s neck, he decides it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care. He’ll have it, he’ll keep it, for as long as he can.

He falls asleep to the thought.


End file.
